Max passed the ground-floor jewelry store and opened the door leading to the stairs to the second and third floors. Though the walls were painted a modern cream, the wooden stairs, the steps worn in the center, revealed the building’s age.
On the second floor, Max entered a law office that looked as though it had been there since the building was built in the 1880s—and it probably had. Old wood paneling, old wooden floor, worn Persian rug, its rich colors muted by age. The door creaked as Max closed it behind him.
The young receptionist damn sure hadn’t been there since the 1880s. As Max stepped inside, she smoothed glistening platinum hair and smiled brightly at him, and it was a smile that said a lot. Max was glad Annie wasn’t there to see it.
“Good morning. May I help you?”
“Yes. I’m Max Darling. I’d like to speak to Mr. Tarrant.” Max took out his card and scrawled: Miss Dora sent me. “If you will give this to him, I would appreciate it.”
Miss Dora’s name continued to work magic, which came as no surprise to Max. As he followed the receptionist into one of the inner offices, the tight frown on Whitney Tarrant’s face came as no surprise either.
As the door closed behind his receptionist, Tarrant eyed Max coldly. “You’ve obviously taken advantage of an old woman’s foolish credulity. I owe my great-aunt every courtesy, but I don’t owe you a damn thing—and I want to make it clear that I’m violently opposed to your meddling in our family affairs.”
“Murder can cause worse than meddling. I’d imagine you’d rather talk to me than to Chief Wells.” Max gestured toward the red leather chair that faced Tarrant’s beautifully carved desk. “May I?”
Tarrant stared at him. “Chief Wells?”
“Miss Dora has informed him of last night’s revelations.” Max looked at him inquiringly. “I’m surprised you didn’t call him yourself.”
“But—” Whitney’s eyes shifted away from Max. Better than anyone else at Miss Dora’s, Whitney, as a lawyer, knew there was no statute of limitations in regard to murder. “Yes, yes, I see. Of course, we will have to think back.” His glance became wary. “Yes, I see. Go ahead, then, sit down. But I can’t give you much time. I have to be in court at ten.”
Max thought this was probably invented on the spot. Whitney was definitely an office lawyer, though his walls were decorated with prints of English barristers. It was assuredly an impressive office. An Aubusson rug stretched in front of the massive desk, a pair of matching Chinese Lowestoft gamecocks rested at either end of the bookcase behind the desk. A French Empire clock dominated the mantelpiece above the Georgian fireplace. A small, spider-legged circular table, its antique patina gleaming, sat in front of the fireplace. One wall held a gun collection: a musket, two sets of silver-plated dueling pistols, a Colt Model 1860 revolving pistol, a Spencer rifle, and a Springfield carbine.
Max looked the collection over. A gun lover. A weak-chinned gun lover. But guns couldn’t help Whitney now.
Max leaned forward in his chair and spoke briskly. “This is your chance to stand up and be counted, Mr. Tarrant. Do you want to find your father’s murderer or not?”
“Of course I do,” Whitney snapped. “Though I still have to wonder … perhaps Miss Dora was wrong about the time and seeing Ross.”
Max didn’t bother to respond to that weak ploy.
Tarrant abandoned it, too. He straightened the single stack of papers on his desk top. “I just don’t see—I mean, that leaves Milam and Julia and Charlotte. And Lucy Jane, the cook, was around somewhere. And Sam, the butler. And the maid. God, what was her name. Tiny little thing who always moved real fast. Oh, yeah, Enid.” His head lifted. “I can’t believe it! It couldn’t be one of them!”
Max pulled out his notebook and flipped over several pages. “Is there anyone who you know for a fact could not have done it?”
“How would I know that?” the lawyer asked, puzzled.
Max glanced at the notebook. “Last night you said you were in the garage when you heard the shot. That’s some distance from the house. Maybe you saw someone just before or just after the shot and that would place them too far from the study to have committed the murder.”
“No.” That was all he said. Even an office lawyer knows that simple answers are best.
Max looked at Whitney until the lawyer’s gaze slid away.
“All right, then. Let’s go back to the garage. You were working on your car?” Max put a minuscule note of doubt in his voice. “You often worked on your car?”
“Uh, no.” Whitney moved restively in his leather seat, and it squeaked.
“But that’s what you were doing that afternoon?” Max pressed.
“Yes.” Whitney clipped the word off and glared at Max.
Unabashed, Max asked, “What kind of car was it?”
“Oh, God, let me think. Damn long time ago. Oh, yeah, yeah, we had a 1968 Pontiac.”
Max let the answer hang. It wasn’t the kind of car to excite devotion. Finally, he said, “All right. You were in the garage with your car. What were you doing to it?”
Whitney shrugged. “Cleaning it out. We’d been out to the country on a picnic the night before and it had a lot of stuff in it.”
“What time did you go out to the garage?” Max held his pen over the notebook.
Whitney folded his arms across his chest. “How should I know? Oh, hell, I don’t know. I don’t remember. What the hell difference does it make?”
“It’s necessary to pinpoint exactly where everyone was at four o’clock. When we know that, we may be able to show that one or more of you couldn’t have been in the study and murdered the Judge.” Max had no idea whether this concept was true, but he felt damn certain there was something Whitney didn’t want to reveal. Whether it concerned the garage, his own actions, or his father’s murder was impossible to tell. “So”—Max tried a persuasive smile—“could you see anyone else from your vantage point in the garage?”
Whitney drummed his fingers irritably on the desk top. “Look, Darling, it’s twenty damn years ago! And I was cleaning the damn car. I wasn’t rubbernecking out the window.”
“The garage has a window?” Max wished that he had scouted out the garage before coming to the Tarrant offices. He could have been much more precise and demanding in his questions.
“Oh, yeah. Several. And—” Whitney stopped. A startled look crossed his face. He frowned, then shook his head.
“You saw someone?” Max demanded quickly. “Who? Where?”
But Whitney was absorbed in his memories. He was obviously turning an idea—and a worrisome one—over and over in his mind.
Max asked again. “Who did you see?” He felt an urgency, a sense of excitement. Maybe, finally, something was going to break.
“Who did I …” Then Whitney focused on Max. The lawyer’s face hardened. It was as if a shutter came down in his eyes, and they were as bright and hard and unreadable as agates. “I didn’t see a damn thing.” He repeated it emphatically. “I didn’t see a damn thing.” There was a ring of truth in his voice. “Because there wasn’t anything to see.” He shoved back his chair and stood. “It’s too long ago. Either Ross did it—or we’ll never know who did it. And I’m out of time. Let’s make it quick. I was in the garage. I didn’t see a damn soul until my brother came slamming in and that was ten minutes after the sound of the shot. At least ten minutes. I didn’t leave the garage during that time or shortly before that time. I sure as hell didn’t sprint into the house and shoot my father.”
Max slowly stood, too, and tried to look benign. “Mr. Tarrant, please be assured that our objective is to unearth the truth, not trouble innocent parties. But until we learn what really happened that afternoon, we have to ask questions, questions that I hope you will answer frankly. For example, will you tell me what kind of terms your father was on with the other members of the family?”
A mirthless smile pulled down the corners of the lawyer’s mouth. “Terms? His own terms, Mr. Darling. My f
ather—” He took a deep breath. “‘Judge’ was what we called him, Mr. Darling. All of us. Even my mother. The Judge ruled. It was that simple.”
“Had you talked with him that day?” Max kept his eyes on Tarrant’s face.
“Just a good morning at breakfast,” Whitney said carefully.
Whitney wasn’t a talented lawyer. His suddenly smoothed-out expression was patently contrived. He wouldn’t have fooled a jury for a minute. He sure didn’t fool Max.
“Breakfast? Oh, I see. Were you and your wife living there on a permanent basis?” It wasn’t quite an idle question, but the response surprised Max.
Anger and, even after all these years, embarrassment flashed in the attorney’s eyes. “I was a young lawyer. I was just starting out.” His tone was clearly defensive. “I didn’t have the income to afford a home. Besides, Charlotte loved living at Tarrant House.”
“Did you?” Max asked quickly.
A dull flush stained Whitney’s cheeks. He didn’t answer.
Max tapped his notebook. “I have some figures here—your family is quite well-to-do. Couldn’t your parents have helped you and Charlotte with a home—or made one of the plantations available?”
“That’s an offensive question, Darling.” Whitney walked to the door and flung it open. “And I’ve got better things to do than be insulted by you.”
Max stood his ground. “Did the Judge refuse to help you? Did he insist you earn enough money to support yourself outside of family income? I understand he never accepted money from his parents.”
Whitney’s bony face twisted in a furious scowl. “Get the hell out, Darling. Now.”
11:12 A.M., SATURDAY, MAY 9, 1970
Enid Friendley tapped politely on the door to the Judges bedroom though she knew he was in his study. At the expected lack of response, she turned the heavy bronze doorknob and entered. As she moved swiftly around the room—Enid always moved quickly, though she begrudged every step in the service of this house—she dusted efficiently and thoroughly and savored the pleasure she felt when she saw that the carved mahogany box was no longer in place atop the Judge’s dresser.
Chapter 14.
The Mt. Zion Baptist Church glistened in the early-morning sunlight. A cemetery adjoined the church, the plots beautifully cared for. The frame church had recently been repainted and was a dazzling white. The frame house on the far side of the church also sparkled with fresh paint. White and red impatiens grew in profusion in the front bed. Crimson azaleas flamed along the side of the tiny house.
Annie pulled into the shell drive. The slam of her car door sounded shockingly loud in the placid morning quiet.
As Annie approached, the front door opened. An imposing woman stepped out onto the porch. Her dark face held neither welcome nor hostility. Tall and slender, she waited, her hands folded across the midriff of her starched cotton housedress.
“Mrs. McKay?”
“Yes’m. You must be Miz Darling. Miss Dora called, said you were coming.” She didn’t smile. Her face was grave and thoughtful.
Annie recognized strength of character. Lucy Jane McKay would do what she thought was right—and the devil take the hindmost.
Annie was straightforward. “There’s a girl missing—and it’s tied up with what happened a long time ago—to Judge Tarrant and to Ross.”
Lucy Jane looked at her searchingly. “Miss Dora says this girl is the daughter of Mr. Ross and Miss Sybil.” A slow shake of her head. “Miss Sybil—even then she was too pretty for any man to resist, but I thought it would all come right. Mr. Ross, he could handle her—nobody else ever could.” A faint, slightly possessive smile touched her lips. “Mr. Ross—he was a fine young man, a strong, fine young man.” She nodded. Her decision was made. “You’re welcome to come in, Miz Darling.”
The living room was small but cheerful, and it shone from loving care. The gingham curtains were freshly laundered, the wooden floor glistened with wax, the red-and-white braided throw rugs were bright and clean. The smell of baking hung in the air.
Annie sat in a comfortable easy chair and accepted a cup of coffee and a fresh cinnamon roll.
Lucy Jane poured Annie’s coffee, then sat on the sofa, her posture erect, her dark eyes somber.
“Did Miss Dora tell you what we learned last night?” A bite of cinnamon roll melted in Annie’s mouth.
“Yes’m.” Lucy Jane clasped her dark, strong hands together. Her face was troubled. “I always knew something was wrong—bad wrong—that day. I’d been in my quarters. It was afternoon and I was reading my Bible until time to go in the kitchen and set to work on dinner. I’d just looked up at the clock, to make sure time wasn’t getting away from me, when I heard the shot. It was two minutes after four. I didn’t know what to do. I know the sound guns make and there was no call for a gun to be shot off. Not that close. I went to my window and looked out and I saw Mr. Ross running across the garden toward the house. That relieved my mind. I knew Mr. Ross would take care of it, so I went back to my rocker. But pretty soon doors slammed and cars came and went. I went to see what was happening and Mr. Harmon met me at the kitchen door and told me to be fixin’ food for all the family to come, that Judge Tarrant’s heart had given out and he was dead.” She pursed her lips, then burst out, “I knew there was more to it because Enid—she was the maid—she came to me the next week and showed me this charred bundle of clothes. She said they’d belonged to the Judge, and she’d found them out in the incinerator. I told her to hush her mouth and I would see to it. I gave the clothes to Mr. Harmon, and he told me he’d take care of everything. By then the funerals were over, and it had been in the papers how the Judge died from a heart attack when he heard the news about Mr. Ross’s accident with his gun.” She looked across the room at a table filled with framed photographs. “Mr. Ross never had an accident with a gun. Mr. Ross, he was always careful. He did things right.” She smoothed her starched cotton skirt. “I knew it was wrong, all these years, and now the past has come due—and Mr. Ross’s daughter is lost and gone. I tell you, Miz Darling, I feel low in my mind.”
“You can help,” Annie said quietly.
“Now? What can I do?” She was not so much reluctant as uncertain.
“Talk to me about the Tarrants.” Annie held her gaze. “You knew them, really knew them. Tell me who was angry, who was afraid, who was threatened.”
“The Tarrants.” A smile transformed Lucy Jane’s face. “Young Mr. Ross, he had a sense of humor, he did. Did you ever hear tell how he made a family shield? I suppose you know how prideful Miz Charlotte is, always talking about past glories and all the fine things the Tarrants have done and seen—and rightly so. Lawyers and doctors and preachers and good women keeping families going. Oh, there are many stories to tell. I used to hear the Judge talk to the boys when they were little, telling them about mighty battles and such. But Miz Charlotte, she riled Mr. Ross, and one day when he was home for the weekend from school, he and Miss Sybil were in the library giggling fit to kill. When they came out, they put this big poster up on the landing of the stairs, where nobody could miss it, and it was like those shields that knights of old carried. Above the shield, Mr. Ross had written THE TERRIFYING, TERRIBLE TARRANTS, and in each part of the shield, he’d drawn a huge hairy tarantula, and down below, he’d printed, THE FAMILY CREST—TARANTULAS RAMPANT. Course, it made Miz Charlotte mad as everything. She said he was making fun of the family, and Mr. Ross kept insisting he thought it was a lovely shield, very appropriate, probably the very name Tarrant came from tarantula, and that made her madder still.” She chuckled, then slowly the laughter died away. “And not two weeks later, he was lying dead in his grave in St. Michael’s. Just a boy.”
Annie felt a prickle of horror: Ross Tarrant, having fun with his heritage and so soon to sacrifice himself for his family’s honor.
“The Family.” Annie shivered though the swath of sunlight spilling from the east window touched her with warmth. She drank more of the strong, hot, chicory-flavore
d coffee. “Tell me about the Judge.”
“Mr. Augustus.” If there was no great warmth in Lucy Jane’s voice, there was ungrudging respect. The Judge apparently had earned great respect. Had anyone ever loved him? “He came to dinner every Sunday with his parents when I first came to Tarrant House. After his folks died, that’s when Mr. Augustus and Mrs. Amanda moved in with their two little boys. Mr. Ross was born there. He was such a beautiful baby, blond curls and blue eyes, and always happy. Mr. Augustus was real strict with the boys. He expected them to do just so. I know it’s a fact—I raised three boys and a girl—you have to expect a lot from children if they’re to grow up right. But somehow, the Judge expected—” Her eyes were troubled. “—my heart told me he expected more than mortal boys could give. Even Mr. Ross. I don’t know if I can rightly explain. I always thought the Judge never saw them—Milam and Whitney and Ross—as flesh-and-blood people. He saw them as … Tarrants.”
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